


Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

by Audrey_Lynne



Category: Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001), Hedwig and the Angry Inch - Trask/Mitchell
Genre: Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Music Creation, Other, Rebuilding, Suicidal Thoughts, Transphobia, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wicked Little Town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hedwig, through the years, as she fights to find a reason to keep going.  Sometimes she finds a way to tell her stories through her music.  And sometimes, it's enough just to piss off those people whose lives would be easier if she weren't around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Anna for the editing, inspirational chats, and space to work on this one. And Kerry for always reminding me that no matter how mean I am to my beloved characters sometimes, she's done worse.

That night. That fucking night, when she’d been twenty-seven, overwhelmed, and on a collision course with destruction–almost literally. That night, when she came home, shaky, and confessed to Luther she’d nearly run the car into oncoming traffic, hoping the accident would kill her. But, no, she couldn’t take anyone else out with her. Bad karma and all.

That night, when Luther, strangely disaffected by the news that his wife’s sense of morality had been the only thing to bring her home alive, had shrugged and said it sounded like something she needed to be in the hospital for. That couldn’t be healthy. But he couldn’t take her. He’d had a couple glasses of wine. (She’d seen him drive with more. It was cheap grocery store wine that wouldn’t have gotten a toddler drunk). He put in a public service call to the police and they took her to the hospital in the back of a squad car. The officers had been nice about it, at least, putting some classic rock on the radio for the ride.

That night she’d been informed after several hours in the ER that there weren’t any psychiatric beds in the hospital. They had to find one elsewhere, since even in a shitty community hospital in 1989 Kansas, letting a suicidal woman walk out the door wasn’t exactly an option. Transgender or not, they had to do something with her. Pretend like they cared and weren’t just covering their asses.

That night she pretended not to hear the staff talking in the hallway about how “those people” shouldn’t be stopped from killing themselves. About her “poor husband” who’d been tricked by some scheming boy out for his green card. A part of her wanted to charge out there and say no. No, that wasn’t how it happened. They’d both agreed to it because they were in love and it was the only way. Still, a part of Hedwig started to doubt herself. Luther hadn’t wanted to drive her to the hospital, after all. Was he realizing now that he’d been tricked? On some level, she knew it wasn’t true. But, alone, in a revealing paper hospital gown in a shitty emergency room that smelled of the same antiseptic as that back-alley butcher in Berlin, she started to wonder.

Yeah, that night.

Or was it the next night, when she was settled at another hospital and cleared to receive visitors? When Luther spent a grand total of five minutes with her before declaring it was too hard to see her like this and fleeing?

Maybe it was the night after, when she started taking up smoking just to be able to step out onto the enclosed porch for a few minutes with the ward’s smokers, to feel the fresh air on her face? She found the nicotine calmed her, and it was a nice follow-up to a productive day of therapy. She confessed that she had caused a lot of strife in her relationship with her husband and she was committed to learning how to repair it. That hadn’t been the therapist’s doing, actually; Hedwig came up with that revelation all on her own. But he’d commended her on the breakthrough. The art therapist praised her as she sketched her chaotic feelings into disjointed pictures and it felt good; no one had ever appreciated her art before. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, being a mental patient.

One of those nights, Hedwig had jotted down some rudimentary lyrics. Just a few, and nothing quite coherent – only passing ideas, attempts at creativity intermingled with her racing thoughts, scribbled onto a page in her diary. They’d allowed her to keep that. Mostly, she wrote in English, a habit she’d forced herself to adopt after coming to America, but sometimes she lapsed back into her native German. It was kind of amusing to see the shift, after the fact, like little parenthetical comments.

_This wicked town. So pious, devout._

_They’ll twist you into anything…down? Does that even make sense? DOES IT HAVE TO RHYME? WAS MACHE ICH?_

_So I’m Sodom, hmm? All by myself. Das ist schön._

_THAT BITCH IS SLEEPING WITH AT LEAST THREE OF THOSE DOCTORS._

When Hedwig got out of the hospital, she hadn’t immediately taken the time to review those diary entries and accompanying illustrations, like she had her whole life. (It amused her, mostly – filled her days when she was young. Habit, now.) She’d been more occupied with life as it continued to develop, things like Luther bringing home the divorce papers, telling her he had to do what was right for him. Maybe if she’d known _“I can’t see you like this”_ was code _for “The trailer’s free to bring my boyfriend over,”_ she’d have blamed herself less. (This was something she would not discover for another month.)

November ninth came and went, with its historic implications and the realization that she was a fucking idiot. It distracted her from the fact that her marriage had lasted less than a year quite nicely – but only for a moment. Then it hit her, if she had waited just a year more – it would have gone fast; this one had – she would be helping to tear that damn wall down herself. Himself. Hansel wouldn’t be dead and gone, never having made it off the operating table. She cried, then laughed to keep from crying more, then cried again.

A moment of defiance seized her, as she contemplated the blank canvas of her wrist, knife in hand. No one would care if she died. Except wouldn’t that let them win? Wouldn’t that prove those bigots at the emergency room right, that she deserved to die because of who she was? No. Hedwig snarled and sliced the ugly braid off her wig instead. In the movies, it would have come off smoothly, but in actuality she had to fight with it a bit, hacking and tugging and laughing in triumph as it came off. God, she’d hated that thing – flopping about, catching on anything, tangling at a moment’s notice. The wig could be adapted to a nice bob. Or she could get another. Or open that one Luther got her for their anniversary. First, though, newly inspired, she grabbed her diary to enter a few thoughts on the matter.

_Never look back. (Isn’t there something about that in your Bible, you pretentious assholes?)_

_There’s a song in this, I’m sure._

_Need to make it sound better. Prettier. Metaphors are good, right?_

It wasn’t until after she fully embraced her newfound defiance and spirit, reinventing herself and leaping into this new life, that Hedwig returned to those old diary notes. Her original intent, admittedly, was to rip them out and burn them. Instead, they inspired her. She rewrote the proto-lyrics over and over, trying to make sense out of them. Adding new thoughts here and there.

It still wasn’t working.

In a fit of annoyance, Hedwig threw the diary aside. A day later, she retrieved it from behind the nightstand, continuing to document her existence but deciding songwriting was clearly not her forte. It wasn’t as if she had much time, with trying to work enough to keep the power on, the water running, and at least a small supply of Budget Gourmet meals in the freezer.

Odd jobs, babysitting, they all blended together over the years. Fifteen monotonous years – or was it sixteen? Depended how she counted. One day, singing in the trailer as she hung her laundry, she decided on a whim to form a band. Granted, in Junction City, Kansas, as a total unknown on the music circuit, the best she could do was an eclectic collection of Korean Army wives. They made do, covering popular music, giving her an outlet. Eventually, Hedwig longed to try her hand at writing again. There was only so much Creed one could take.

The harder she tried, the more she frustrated herself. But, one night, settling down after a few too many drinks, it all came together: those old diary entries. Those half-formed thoughts flowed and poured out of her heart onto the paper into something more tangible. In the morning, Hedwig was afraid to look at what she had written. It didn’t even feel like she’d written it, more like some muse had been working through her. She was terrified it wouldn’t make sense. But, no. There it was: beautiful, in need of only a few tweaks. It was a love letter to a woman struggling to find herself. At least that was what it felt like. Sure, there was some of her story–a lot of her story–in there. Okay, it was her. She was the woman. Who was singing it? She had no idea. Some man, the one she’d deserved instead of the one she got.

The last verse struck a nerve – she didn’t like it. Fake deep? She couldn’t even identify the visceral reaction she was having to it, which was especially odd since she’d written it. There it was, in her handwriting. But she tore that sheet from the notebook and shoved it in a box. The first couple of verses were better. Musically, it would be more interesting to have them trail into the end. It worked as it was. Better, even, without the song’s narrator trying to solve all the problems suddenly. Was that even what it was? She had no idea. In the coming years, she’d forget there even was a final verse. Tommy, when he joined her for the ride, had urged her to write one. She stood her ground, insisting Wicked Little Town – then, complete with music and backup vocals – was fine exactly as it was. He laughed and gave in, as he usually did with her.

More songs followed, both collaborations and her more private endeavors. And when Tommy ran off with everything, including the shattered pieces of her heart, she raged. She sank back into despair. The knife was in her hand again, but this time her wigs were too expensive to take half-hazard swipes at. Eventually, her pride won out and the knife clattered noisily into the sink. Killing herself would say Luther had been right before he left, that there was something wrong with her, that she was lying to everyone, even herself. It would say that Tommy had been right to run because she was damaged beyond repair. To stay alive was to tell them both to go fuck themselves. She thought about ending it, of course. More than was definitely healthy. It became its own sort of dysfunctional escapist fantasy, the various creative ways she might kill herself. But, no, she wasn’t going to do it. Some said living well was the best revenge. In her case, it was the very act of living itself.

—-

Hedwig tended not to bond well, if at all, with other women. Many wouldn’t accept her as one of their own. Most others just threatened her on an emotional level. They seemed to have it all together, while Hedwig trailed a rising star. All she ever wanted from Tommy was recognition. She was far beyond wanting him back. What she wanted back was her music. Her dignity. As he got famous with her music, her words, she played shitty clubs and fought the misconceptions. That she was a drag act. That she was a Tommy Gnosis cover artist. That she was anything but what she wanted to be. She didn’t even know what that was anymore, but she knew what it wasn’t. Phyllis Stein had been a godsend, an exception to Hedwig’s rule about not caring for the company of women. Phyllis, with her kind heart and desire to please, accepted Hedwig as she was. She was the champion Hedwig needed (and paid her to be). It was because of her there were any jobs at all. She saw the handful of songs Hedwig had written since Tommy and immediately agreed the style was unmistakable. The difference having even one person who believed her was astounding. It would have been even better if she had been able to book anything that wasn’t in some shitty forgotten corner of the world, but it wasn’t for Phyllis’ lack of trying.

Croatia had been something of a plot twist. It was a rough patch for her, as far as bookings went, and being a solo artist didn’t help. She wanted – needed – a band again to prove what she could do. Phyllis kept looking for artists to open with her, suggesting double acts, but Hedwig held firm. She was going to headline her own band or she was going to stay single. She wasn’t giving anyone else a chance to do what Tommy had done. Phyllis had suggested that if Hedwig were willing to go to Germany, it might expand her options, but that wasn’t something she was ready for. She’d given up everything to get out. Even with the Wall in pieces, why go back? And, so, as much as Hedwig despised the drag circuit, even as it undermined her every attempt to be taken seriously as a woman, just a woman, the drag circuit of Croatia was at least not Germany. There, everything had changed. Most of the drag queens sneered at her or ignored her, but not Krystal. Not Krystal, that tiny little firebrand who’d been a lousy choice for an opening act because she was entirely too popular. Krystal, who had cornered Hedwig backstage and proposed marriage. It was a desperation Hedwig could understand, and as she removed the wig and wiped the makeup away, she had to admit the man underneath…well, he was kind of cute. And his voice, when she heard it. He had talent, talent she could mold. He had an accompanist whose name Hedwig didn’t have a prayer of learning to pronounce properly but who seemed to be a brilliant artist in his own right. Most importantly, he was willing to accept her terms. It quickly became apparent how naturally submissive Yitzhak was, and Hedwig liked that. Not just because it negated the threat he posed, but also–well, that was mostly it. He knew his place in their dynamic, and if giving up the spotlight was his trade for freedom, she’d made him a hell of a better deal than having to part with his genitals. (At least that was what she told herself.)

The Ukraine, Hungary, Poland…more stops, more pieces coming together. By the time she was preparing to leave Warsaw, she had an actual band again: another strange collection of misfits. But she was extremely fond of them, even if she had trouble showing it.

Her music was coming together the way she wanted it to again. Full backing – the instruments, the vocals. She would never have to settle for some drag club again. Even if they were clubs in the middle of nowhere, even restaurants across the heartland, she could be exactly who she was. Granted, at the moment, that was an internationally ignored sensation, but once she either got Tommy to admit to her role in his fame (or won her lawsuit, at this point she didn’t care which) that would change.

Tommy’s people continued to malign her in every article she was mentioned. He continued to deny he knew her, likely on their advice. It wasn’t easy, but her lust for justice in the matter kept her going, even when she got low and started entertaining those thoughts of escape again. If she gave up, it would be his win. He’d be free of her and the media would spin it to convince the world Tommy was right all along. That she was the crazy, selfish liar their narrative made her out to be. That she was the pathological manipulator Luther had accused her of being after the divorce. (Not to her face, of course, but it was a hell of a lot easier to explain the ex-wife to his new flings if he could make himself out to be the victim.)

Despite what her band (and at times, even her husband) seemed to think, Hedwig was fully aware that she had lost control of her life at some point along the way. She knew it well before she was picking up a few extra bucks to pay the bills in the Meatpacking District, before she got into Tommy’s limo, before the accident that proved she knew him if nothing else. She had simply stopped caring. After the accident, she took all the publicity she could grab; who knew when it might come her way again? Her personal life may have been held together at the seams with glue and duct tape, figuratively speaking, but Yitzhak and the band – well, they could forgive her when they were all rich. When she got the recognition she deserved. Did she go a bit too far sometimes? Well, maybe. But if life had taught Hedwig anything, it was that sometimes the end justified the means. On some level, she knew she went too far occasionally in her attempts to remind them where they fell in this hierarchy. Especially with Yitzhak. He had his moments lately, where she saw the old fire Krystal had exuded coming back, and the implications scared her. And, so, if she was a bit too cruel in tightening his reins…well, she could apologize later. Once her plan came to fruition, he would understand. He had to.

Two weeks after the accident, Hedwig was stumbling back into a seemingly empty hotel room. The band had been out and about any chance they could get, probably because of the cramped quarters. A rustle of motion from the bathroom, however, caught her attention. Yitzhak. Hedwig sighed; he’d been particularly sulky all day and she really wasn’t in the mood. As she drew closer, she could see a pill bottle in his hand – her Valium prescription. Hedwig was just opening her mouth to tell him he should probably take one, he needed to chill, when the look on his face stopped her. The way he was staring at the bottle, the internal debate. She drew in a sharp breath, which had him turning his head toward her. Startled, he dropped the bottle and it bounced off the sink and to the floor.

“It’s – it’s nothing,” Yitzhak insisted.

Hedwig sighed. “Well, it had better be nothing.” She winced as she heard the words coming out of her mouth. “I mean, we’ve all been there. We’ve all thought it. Doesn’t mean anything, okay?”

His eyes went to the floor, not meeting hers. “Of course not.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re clear. Now, you want one, be my guest, but the whole bottle?” Hedwig shrugged. “That’s just…well, no. It’s exactly what you said. Nothing. Because it’s not going to fucking happen, do you hear me?” Her fear was starting to get the better of her, as she began to wonder what might have happened if she’d arrived a little later.

“No.” Yitzhak still wasn’t looking at her. “No. It’s not.” He kicked the bottle with his foot slightly, toward the shower, and Hedwig bent down to scoop it up. He did raise his gaze then, glancing her direction. “I suppose you’d want to send me–”

Hedwig wasn’t sure how he was planning to finish that sentence, but she didn’t want to hear it so she cut him off. “Send you away? To the hospital? Lock you up? No. God. Fuck, Yitzhak, I’m not him. I’m fucking not him, okay?”

Yitzhak stepped back, startled, and frowned. “Hedwig?”

As the initial wave of emotion faded back and logic returned, Hedwig realized she’d never told Yitzhak about that night, when she’d nearly killed herself the first time. When Luther had sent her away without a second thought. She’d been accusing Yitzhak of painting her with the same brush when he really had no idea what she was talking about. It was enough to calm her. She sighed. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I mean – okay, it’s not fine. Things are pretty fucked up lately, I get that, but I’m not going to send you anywhere. Unless you think you need to go to the hospital?” Some people found a sense of safety there, she remembered from talking with her fellow inpatients, years ago. “I’ll take you there if that’s what you want.”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “No. I’m – no. Like you said, right? We all think about it sometimes.”

“Right.” She nodded, putting a hand on his arm lightly. “Listen. It’s going to get better. I’ve got a contact; I might be able to get us a Broadway theatre the night Tommy does his Times Square bullshit. We’ll get our time to shine. People will see. And then we’ll have money again and maybe even record deals and we can settle down and…I don’t know. Shit. We’re never going to have picket fences. I don’t want them at this point. But if we give in, he wins. Luther wins. Whoever you fucking need to piss off in your life. Staying alive, it’s a giant middle finger. Very punk rock.”

Yitzhak almost smiled. “Well, in that case.”

“Yeah, there you go.” Hedwig nodded toward the bed, only a few steps away in the tiny room. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning. I know it’s cliché as hell, but there’s always a chance.”

“And if they don’t?” Yitzhak asked, but he followed her.

Hedwig shrugged. “If they don’t…we’re still alive. And everyone who’s ever hurt us can still go fuck themselves.”

Yitzhak did smile then as he sat down on the bed, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I can live with that.”

She returned the smile, allowing herself to touch his face briefly. “You’d better.”

—-

Maybe Luther and Tommy and those catty bitches in the ER and everyone else had been right. Maybe she was crazy. After all, she’d just had a total nervous breakdown in front of a thousand people. And now she was standing in an alley in her underwear, crying – a mess. Crying the way she’d wanted to that night back in Kansas, when Luther had told her he couldn’t be bothered with her emotional distress. Crying for everything that had happened since then. Before. Crying for her entire life and not sure she wanted to bother with the rest of it. Living as revenge had its perks, but where had it gotten her? Everything she’d been doing wrong with that life was crashing down on her. Yitzhak, the sweet, long-suffering soul that he was…even he was done with her.

And Tommy. There he was, with the intro of Wicked Little Town playing, on that stupid platform, and she was standing in this alley, in her underwear – like he generally performed. Looking not unlike him with all her womanhood stripped away. Listening to him sing her song, the one she’d started that horrible fucking night, even if it hadn’t come together for years.

But, no. Those weren’t the words. For a minute, as she sobbed listening to him sing, that softening in his face that somehow let her know he wanted her to hear this, she thought he’d rewritten the lyrics. And then she remembered. That “fake deep” final verse. The one she’d hated. This was it. This was what she’d been talking about. But how could she have known?

_The stranger’s always you._

As she looked down at herself, it hit her. Knowledge, like Tommy had once thirsted for. She’d given it to him. Now he gave it back to her. Hansel wasn’t dead, like she always told herself. A part of him survived, inside her. Had this final verse been a letter from that part of herself, one she could only tap into at that point in her life through her music? Or had she just been drunk enough to reach some higher plane of understanding? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. This had been exactly what she needed to hear at exactly the right time. Pulling herself together, she headed back inside – still in a daze. Still gathering her wits. She paused backstage to breathe, then stumbled back out to find an audience still there. Her band, staring. Her husband, broken. Hedwig took a deep breath and touched her face. Silver makeup. When had she done that? Why? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

What did matter was the now. The life that she had before her. The new hope of it filled her, and she remembered that night only a few days ago in the bathroom. How much of Yitzhak’s despair had been her fault? Too much, probably. The least she could do was give him his own life back. His agency. His choice. And giving him his life was the first step to reclaiming hers. Somehow, whatever happened, if he came back to her or not, Hedwig knew he was going to be okay. She didn’t have to live for revenge anymore. Now there was actual joy, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She sang, letting the moment and the adrenaline carry her. Her new-found elation, she saw reflected on her band members’ faces–on Krystal’s, when she returned. A horrible night had turned into something beautiful. Life was funny that way.

And damned if she wasn’t going to live the hell out of it.

 

 


End file.
